Sin With Me

40

Purposeful.

“They’re making out,” jokes Brody, seeing where my gaze lingers.

“Must be awkward, making out with no lips,” I joke back, hoping he’ll attribute the color in my cheeks to our time spent in the sun.

He flashes me a smile. “There are all kinds of ways to make out.”

My stomach flips. I can’t wait for him to show me what that means.

He turns the shower on for me. I rinse off my feet first, then rinse the salt water from my hair and face. I’m aware of his gaze on me the entire time, warmer than sunlight.

When I’m finished, he quickly rinses off, too, shaking his head under the spray like a dog. Then he turns off the spigot, reaches behind him for the long tether on the zipper at the back of his wetsuit, yanks it down, and peels the wetsuit off his arms and chest. He lets it hang at his waist so his entire upper body is bare.

A wave of intense heat flashes over me.

I once read an article about spontaneous human combustion. It’s an extremely rare phenomenon, but there are documented cases of people igniting out of the blue from no visible cause. Apparently the fire starts within the body due to some bizarre combination of factors, and the person is consumed within minutes. There’s even a Wikipedia page dedicated to the subject.

A picture of the smoking pile of ash that used to be me will soon be featured on that Wikipedia page.

Brody’s body is, in a word, stunning.

He’s not bulky in the least, but he’s beautifully muscled, with the definition of a long-distance runner, all sculpted planes and breathtaking angles, an incredibly poetic symmetry of form. The muscles in his biceps bulge as he raises his hands to rake them through his wet hair. Water runs in glistening rivulets down his chest and over the six-pack of his abs, channeling into the V below his waist that leads down to his pelvis.

His shoulders are wide, his waist is narrow, his skin is a gorgeous golden hue, burnished from all the time he obviously spends in the sun.

The tattoo that spans the breadth of his chest is a pair of angel’s wings, flared wide, with something written in black ink just below his collarbone, in a language that looks like cursive hieroglyphics.

I have no idea how long I stand there stupidly staring, but at some point I become aware that Brody is saying my name.

“What? No. I mean yes. I’m listening.”

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “How you doing there, Slick?”

“Uh—good. Fine. I’m great.” I toss my wet hair out of my face and attempt a nonchalant expression, like he didn’t just catch me ogling him with drool running down my chin.

“You sure? You look a little . . . flushed.”

He grins. I’ve never seen a man’s smile look so goddamn smug.

Turnabout is fair play, Kong.

“To tell the truth, Mr. Scott, I was just admiring your breasts.”

His brows shoot up. He glances down at himself, and then back up at me. “My . . . breasts.”

“Yes. They’re quite spectacular.”

He shakes his head slowly, still grinning. “Just out of curiosity, how many men’s fragile egos have you crushed in your life? Because honestly, Slick, you’re the worst at giving compliments. You’re, like, the anticompliment queen.”

Feeling cheeky and emboldened because I’ve narrowly escaped death by instantaneous combustion, I ask, “Does that mean you don’t want me to touch them?”

He stares at me. “Do you want to touch them?”

I think he was aiming for casual, but there’s a telling edge to his voice, a rough little growl beneath the lighthearted delivery. It gives me a thrill.

“I would very much like to touch them, yes.” I step closer.

He doesn’t move, but the pulse in the base of his neck quickens. I take another step closer, and another, and then we’re standing only inches apart.

Holding perfectly still, he gazes down at me. His green eyes are half-lidded. A drop of water glistens on his chin. I resist the urge to stand up on my toes and lick it off.

“Well, go ahead then,” he says gruffly. “Touch them.”

The pulse in his neck throbs.

I reach out and touch his arm. The muscle in his biceps tenses. I slide my finger up to his shoulder. His nostrils flare. I trace the elegant line of his collarbone down to the hollow of his throat, where I let my finger rest for a moment on that wildly throbbing vein.

He’s holding so still. His eyes are so hot. I feel like we’re on the cusp of nuclear fusion.

I flatten my hand over the center of his chest. I feel the heat of his body, the clamor of his heart, and that crackle of electricity passing back and forth between us on a fast, repeating loop.

With a crack in his voice he says, “You’re trembling.”

“So are you.”

“Those are shivers. I’m just cold from being wet. And the wind.”

I let my hand drift down his chest until I feel a small, peaked nub under my thumb. “Is that why your n*****s are so hard?”

He swallows. “Yep.”

As he struggles to remain still, I slowly circle his wet, hard n****e with my thumb. I whisper, “You must be very cold, Mr. Scott.”

“Not everywhere.”

It’s a husky, needy rasp, and I love the sound of it.

“No?” My hand drifts lower.

His breathing grows irregular. The muscles of his stomach contract under my touch. Just beneath his belly button there’s a fine down of hair. I stroke it, moving my finger languidly lower.

He licks his lips. His entire body tenses. At his sides, his hands curl into fists.

I ask, “Are you trying not to touch me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”